The Short Chronicle of Barry Cook
by VirgoStarr
Summary: Remember Barry Cook from Truman High School? This story shows the events that led up to his unfortunate suicide.


No one knows what goes on behind closed doors because we make a point of keeping them locked. We keep things inside until one day we explode or just break down.

Every so often though, a special person will come into your life. One that will make you feel safe and secure. One that will keep you sane.

For Barry Cook, that person had walked out of his life exactly ten months ago. Granted, Sam Winchester had only been in his life for three weeks, but he had treated the fourteen year old better than anyone had before.

Barry finally had someone to sit with at lunch, to talk to, to hang out with. This apparent friendship had turned out to be a mere fever dream. Without Sam, Barry's life returned to its former state of horror.

Dirk's daily beatings resulted in several bruises, cuts, and more than a few trips to the optician. More than anything though, they resulted in lies and fake smiles.

Barry would tell his mother that he had, once again, tripped and smashed his glasses. The bruises came from walking into a door. He was beginning to feel like his whole life was a lie. Nobody cared enough to find out the truth anyway.

"Hey dork!" a voice called from behind Barry, interrupting his thoughts. It was Dirk, the school bully. After Sam had dubbed him "Dirk the Jerk" he only resorted to more violence, most of which was directed at Barry.

"I'm talking to you!" Dirk yelled again. Barry had realized a long time ago that ignoring his tormentor wouldn't stop the attacks, but it was better than retaliating. Even so, a fight ensued and Barry's books came tumbling out of his arms as the result of a large hand slamming against them.

"Please Dirk!" Barry begged "Can't you just leave me alone today?" The bully laughed, obviously unconvinced by the smaller boy's weak protests.

"Trying to resist, are we?" Dirk landed a hard punch right across Barry's left cheek. At this point, a large crowd had gathered around to see what was going on. Some of the bystanders looked frightened, others were cheering on Dirk.

"Aren't you going to fight back?" Dirk taunted. Barry shook his head, receiving a blow to the stomach, knocking him over. He struggled to regain his breath as he looked up at Dirk with watery eyes.

"This'll teach you and your dumb friend to never call me 'Dirk the Jerk' again!" he growled, each of his words punctuated by a kick. Finally satisfied with his work, Dirk began walking away, the circle parting like the Red Sea. Waiting on the other side was the Truman High English teacher, Mr. White.

"Dirk, this needs to stop happening," he sighed "Come with me." Barry watched through a swollen eye as the two retreated and the rest of the crowd eventually dispersed.

Despite how much every cell in his body screamed at him to stop, Barry knew that if he didn't move quickly he would miss his bus. He gathered up his books, which seemed heavier than before, and limped outside.

The bus driver gave him a look of pity, but said nothing. All the kids merely ignored him. Luckily, the ride from the school to his house was only ten minutes, so he didn't have to endure their stares for very long.

There was only one more obstacle standing between him and the solace of his room; his mother. Barry tried to close the front door as quietly as possible, but the hinges let out a horrible squeak, signifying his mother of his arrival.

"Barry, you home?" she called from the kitchen.

"Yeah mom, I'll be in my room!"

"Don't you want to eat-"

"No, I'm fine!" Barry shouted, slamming the door to his bedroom and sighing with relief. He tossed his textbooks on the perfectly made bed in the corner and then turned towards the mirror on the back of his closet door to survey the damage.

A bruise stretched from his jaw line all the way up to his eye, swelling it shut. The other eye was completely black and blue, but he could still see out of it. His lip was busted and blood trickled down his chin. As bad as his face may have seemed though, Barry knew what lay under his shirt was ten times worse.

Barry slowly pulled off his long-sleeved polo shirt and surveyed the damage. His entire rib cage was covered with dark bruises, already starting to turn yellow. The heel of Dirk's boot had apparently caught on his stomach because it had left a huge gash across it.

Stitching all these new injuries together were scars from old ones not necessarily caused by Dirk. Most of them were horizontal, placed across his arms, stomach, and legs. Some were older; they were silvery-pink and beginning to fade. Others were newer; they were an angry red and starting to scab over.

The most noticeable was a vertical scar torn into his left forearm stretching from his elbow to the top of his wrist. It was by far the deepest and was the kind of scar that would never fade.

A lump formed Barry's throat as he stared at his big scar. It had been created in one of his darkest moments. Dirk had beaten him and broken his glasses once again and, hoping for some sympathy, Barry ran home early, not bothering to wait for the bus.

Turns out, his dad had the same idea and his car was parked in the driveway when Barry arrived. Knowing what was probably happening inside, he ran as fast as he could, barreling through the front door and into his room. Of course, his parents didn't notice.

Barry buried his head under a pillow, but it couldn't drown out the shouting match going on in the living room. This happened almost every night, but you never get used to that kind of thing and Barry was absolutely sick of it.

He took the razor he kept in his glasses case and made a long, sharp slice across his forearm. Not satisfied yet, he ran through it over and over again until he had gone through an entire box of tissues to stop the bleeding.

Seeing it now was only triggering for Barry and it took all the willpower he had not to run over to his hidden razor. He wanted to relieve the pain he was feeling so badly, but he knew he couldn't. He wanted to stop for his mother. Tears started trickling down his face and he ran to his bed, eventually crying himself to sleep.

Barry was hoping to wake up to silence, but unfortunately, his prayers were not answered.

"You bitch! Who said you could do that?" It was his father's furious, deep voice "Who are you calling now? Your stupid mother?"

"I'm calling the police! I'm not dealing with you any longer!"

Barry could only listen on in horror, desperately trying to drown out the noise with the radio and a pillow, but nothing was working. There was only one solution.

Barry pulled out his razor and, gazing at the long, vertical scar on his arm, began tearing through his skin once more. This time he didn't need the tissues. He knew what he wanted to do.

Barry knew he had finally succeeded when the blue walls of his bedroom began fading to black.

"Barry, it's time to get up! You'll be late for school!" Mrs. Cook called to her son. She was a little worried when he wasn't already awake, sitting at the table with a bowl of cereal. It wasn't uncommon for him to oversleep though, especially when her and her husband had been fighting.

"Barry?" He still wasn't coming out and she was beginning to get agitated. She pushed open the door to his room to discover her son's lifeless body on his blood soaked bed. He held a razor in his limp hand which was pressed into a cut on his left arm.

Mrs. Cook wanted to cry so badly, but nothing was coming out. She just collapsed to the floor, unable to take her eyes off the body of her dead son.

The funeral for Barry Cook was held three days later. It was a closed coffin service. His father had refused to come, but his mother was giving a eulogy.

"In the case of suicide, people often say that the signs leading up to it weren't apparent. I believe that this is false. They usually are very obvious; we just don't pay very much attention to them. My son never came out and told me that he was being bullied, but in the back of my mind I knew. I should've made an attempt to stop the fighting at home, but I didn't.

"I partially blame myself for this. My son will never finish his sophomore year; he'll never see his best friend, Sam Winchester, ever again. He'll never graduate from high school and go to Michigan University. I won't get to meet the pretty girl he was destined to marry. He was too young for this." Tears began forming in her eyes.

"I'm sorry… And I'm sorry Barry. I wanted to be there for you son. You were my little bear and I hate to see you this way." Mrs. Cook folded up the tear stained paper she was holding and went to the coffin to place an orange tulip on it, one of Barry's favorites.

The rest of the crowd followed suit and the last one to walk up was a young boy, probably in high school, with curly brown hair and tears in his eyes. It was Dirk McGregor.


End file.
